College Dorm Fight Story

This one is true--well, most of it. I'll let you know when the facts run out.

Back in my college days, the year after the dorm fights started, a lot of the guys who'd been part of our boxing group had graduated--the boxer whose boasts had started it all, one of the muscle boys I'd never had the nerve to call out, even the guy I'd boxed most often. To tell the truth, I put the gloves away. Group dynamics being what they are, I doubted I'd have much luck getting another group together.

I was wrong.

New guys moved into the dorm that fall. Phil, one of the money types who was more likely to play tennis than box, even if he did have broad shoulders and a long reach. Steve, a bodybuilder at heart who couldn't add bulk for some reason but was strong as hell. Gary, who'd flunked out somewhere else and was on some knd of probation here--one of the bad boys, no doubt--turns out he'd some amateur bouts, but he didn't look like a boxer. And the heart of this story is Nate, a jock who didn't go in for team sports...but he'd wrestled in high school. He had that build--stocky, muscular, not that overly beefy, nice rounded shoulders, pecs, arms...and butt. Shorter than me, but not a lot: 5'6" to my 5'8", 160 to my 200. A bit of a paunch, but not much more than a thickness at the belt. One of those guys who always smells like soap. Smart, athletic in the sensual sense, an easy sense of his body and a goofy, physical sense of humor--he laughs with his whole body. Sexy. This is who moved in across the hall from me. I had hopes, but that's all I had.

It took a while for the stories to surface, for the guys to claim bigger victories than they'd had. But it got around, and Nate didn't ask at first. He was in the hallway when one of the guys from last year asked me when we were going to start the fights this year. I told him I didn't know, and let it go at that.

A week or so later, it's the weekend and there's nothing to do, so I'm in the lobby, watching TV. Nate comes in, plops down on one of the chairs. There's all this dust inside the cushions, and it goes up like a cloud. Turns out Nate's got asthma, and he starts hacking and wheezing until we get a window open. I ask if I can do anything else, he says no, and we keep talking. I don't remember how I brought it up, but I ask if he wants to kill some time by boxing a round or two with me. I guess he didn't want the asthma attack to make him look weak, or maybe he had some other reason. But he says yes.

Keep this in mind--for the first year's fights, we had lots of guys crowding into the lobby or my room. Never without an audience. And now we're going one on one alone in my room. No ref. As I've learned since, this is dangerous and at least a little bit stupid...and almost always hot.

As for the actual fight, the years have idealized it a bit, but there's an overall sense of it that seems accurate. Nate could wrestle, but he hadn't boxed before, probably hadn't even had a fistfight. And I'd learned a few incredibly basic things in the previous year--mostly how to use my height against shorter guys. I was still more of a brawler than a boxer--didn't ever get a good jab going, just waded in with powershots and took as many if not more than I gave. I remember overwhelming Nate. I don't think he expected that kind of fight from me, since I'm usually pretty laid back about life. I went fierce on him...well, fierce for me, which was more than he was ready to face. It felt primal and a little out of control. Since he didn't know how to defend himself, I could pretty much swat at will. I stayed away from his eyes, his nose, and his lips because I didn't want to draw blood and scare him away from future fights. I tagged his chin and his temples a lot, even bounced a few off his forehead, just above the bridge of the nose. I don't think I hurt him much, but I did scare him or at least made him uncomfortable. He didn't land much--I could block or dodge most of his head shots, and he didn't even try for my body, which has always been a substantial target. We only went one round. He said he'd had enough. It was a long time before we fought again. I jacked off while he went to shower, just to seal the memory into fantasy. When I heard his door close, I went and showered myself, hoping nobody would walk into the communal showers while I was still hard.

But let's say it turned out a little different. My right hook to his left temple sends him back against the wall. Another right to his jaw, and his head thumps the cinder blocks. Dazed, he drops to one knee. I stand over him, fists ready to strike. He holds his gloves over his head, says he gives up. I pull back my right again, and he grabs me around the waist, his head down into my crotch. We're both breathing deep, and his hot breath on my cock makes it swell and harden. Keeping his grip tight around my waist, he moves his head and that mouth of his until my shorts are down. He takes me in his mouth and works my rod until I shoot. I help him to his feet, kiss those lips, caress his package with my gloves until he shudders and spasms. We shower together, not caring who might walk into the bathroom and see us.

OK, back to the facts.

I decided to keep the fights private, just a few guys at a time, none of the crowd action from the previous year. Word got around, and guys got interested. Some got casual about asking--bodybuilder Steve liked to watch and would ref, which was fine by me, especially when he used those strong arms to separate me from an opponent. I boxed Phil, but I couldn't get past his jab, and he was too tall for the head-hunting I liked to do. I probably could've landed some bodywork, but I just never thought to do it. Then there was Gary. I wanted to learn some moves from him, so I fought him as often as he wanted. Trouble was he fought dirty, usually when I'd hurt him first. Once he held my head down with his left and bloodied my nose with a right uppercut--well, actually his glove was open, so what hit my nose was more like a martial arts strike with the heel of his palm, but blood was enough to stop any fight, so he got what he wanted. One thing I didn't know was Gary was training Nate on the sly, showing him how to beat me.

When I say Nate didn't fight me for a long time, I don't mean he didn't fight anybody else. He went a couple rounds with Gary (which probably started the whole private training idea), a few times with some of his other friends. So I had a chance to see him developing some skills, better footwork, sharper punches. He didn't turn into a pro, but he learned fast. I don't remember noticing the change. Whatever. When he wanted to go against me again, I agreed without a second thought.

It didn't take long for me to realize Nate wasn't the same fighter I'd swatted around a month or so before. For starters, he blocked my punches a lot better, even ducked my right hook. I landed a few shots, but nowhere near as many as before. Plus, he landed some hard punches this time. Again, the fight lingers in my brain as more of an impression than a specific series of punches, but I do remember two of his shots...and I mean I remember them in my body, not just my memory. The first was a bodyblow. For about half the round, I managed to avoid his headshots by leaning back or to the side. Then Nate drove a right hook deep into my left side, just below the ribs. The pain of it registered sharp and deep, like he'd stabbed me. Not even Billy had hit my gut that hard, not with one punch. This one literally bent me over to my left, and my reflexes pulled my elbows in and down to protect my body. No surprise, then, that the second punch I remember was a shot to the head. I have no idea what kind of punch it was, but I've always assumed it was a left. One second I'm in front of him, squared flat like a boxer should never be. Then there's this flash of white, and then I'm a few feet to my left. The pain didn't register right away, but I was disoriented, wondering how'd I'd moved from one place to the other. The expression on Nate's face--and Gary's too, by the way, since he was reffing--told me I'd taken a serious shot and stumbled for a second or two. They looked scared, eyes wide, jaws open. In all the dorm fights, I was only knocked down once, never knocked out. In fact, some guys hit me pretty hard, but I'd never been dazed, even if my head did snap back and forth. If Nate had pressed his attack, he could've had me down and out. I figured I had two choices--quit the fight or get back into it full force. I opted for the attack--because I was stupid and liked to get hit. I kept tossing punches until the round ended. Nate just went defensive, protecting himself but not trying to hit me again. We both knew this would be our last match-up. I'd be willing, but he'd never hurt anyone before and didn't like how it felt to dominate a guy like that. Damn. Afterwards, I jacked off to set the fantasy again, waited for him to get back from his shower. I heard him joking with somebody in the hallway outside my door. "Why is playing bridge like sex? If you got a good hand, you don't need a partner." Lots of laughs after that one. Double damn.

But let's rewind the tape again.

This time, Nate actually does knock me out with that hard left. Better yet, he clubs me a couple more times before I go down--as fierce on me as I was on him, but with better leverage to the punches, the kind of punishment that aches strong all through the next day, maybe even longer. When I come to, I'm on my bed, and everybody but Nate is gone. He's on the bed with me, lying next to me, cradling my head, my shoulder against his chest. He waits until he knows I'm clear, then in a smooth, fluid move he pushes me onto my stomach and spreads that stocky wrestler body across my back. He works his arms under mine and brings his hands behind my head, forces my face down gently. Before long, he's inside me, his thick sex thrusting gently at first, then with greater force, greater speed. Eventually, we both shoot. He releases his hold but stays on top of me, nuzzling my neck, moving his hands over my body. We fall asleep like that. His soap scent stays on the sheets for a week. We box again. He teaches me some wrestling moves. We become fuck buddies.

I have to admit, fiction's got better endings.

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